Parasite
by scntlla
Summary: "Henry, I think there's something wrong with you." "It's the end of the world, Ricken. What do you expect?"


**you're my last meal on death row** **—**

* * *

"Have you heard the news?" Henry asked Ricken as they walked alongside each other. They always took the same path home whenever school ended. Theirs was a road of concrete edged by poorly cut grass, adjacent to the bright blue waters of the bubbling creek. Henry could see his face leering back at him when he glanced over at the stream, and he snickered in boorish reply.

The reflection laughed with him in tandem, and Ricken's soft voice lulled like a song in the wind. "Depends," he said, "on which news you're talking about." Despite his words he seemed uninterested in any topic at hand. The boy was more concerned about the books he was holding in a small stack in front of him, eyes shifting between them as if he didn't know which one to start with first.

Henry smiled. "If you mean the incident with Tharja in third period, I'm sworn to secrecy~ _Obviously_ I'm talking about the plague that's going around and killing everyone, _duuuh._ " A long drawl placed on the vowel made to emphasize how stupefied he was. _This is common knowledge,_ he thought. How silly of Ricken to be so behind on the times!

"You mean that sickness that broke out in Chon'sin?" Ricken inquired, referring to the country farther away from their lovely Ylisse. "I saw the news reports. They said it's hysteria more than anything, and they'll have it under control by the time it reaches us."

"Will they?" Henry wondered. "Or is this the beginning of the end? Are zombies gonna _finally_ manifest in the real world?" Wiry arms threw themselves up into the sky in mock-prayer. "I think so."

"And _I think_ someone's been watching too many horror movies again," Ricken sounded exasperated more than anything. "Look around you. Does this Ylissean suburb scream ' _zombie'_ to you?"

"No," Henry agreed, whipping his head around to scan his surroundings. Nothing in sight but their concrete roads and disappointingly cut grass. There was no carnage in the streets, no blood spilled in their bright blue creeks. Not _yet,_ anyway. "No, everything's bright and sunny on this side. But for _how long?_ "

"Ugh," Ricken groaned. He promptly decided he had had enough. His careful steps ceased at once and he made his way to the crosswalk nearby. The pavement continued on forever in each direction, with glaring traffic lights and road rage drivers decorating every other inch of it. "I have to get home and study." His explanation was simple, and the light turned green to grant his wish.

Henry watched as his best friend stepped over obnoxiously bright white lines with each placid movement. He called out after him: "See you later, Ricken! Don't get swallowed up by a gruesome monster on your way home!"

"Bye, Henry! Stop watching those horror movies!" He reminded him, scrambling to get to the other side of the road before the timer went out. When he reached the safe zone, he straightened his back out and readjusted his books. Then the boy turned on his heels and gave a lasting shout. "I mean it!"

.

.

.

The worldwide news channel flooded with latest inquiries and reports of the sickness taking Chon'sin by storm. Henry gleaned only the basic facts—severe behavior impediments, ravenous appetites, irregularities in bodily functions—before his foster parent shut off the TV, throwing a slipper at his head in an attempt to wipe that smug look off his face.

It worked only for a moment and then Henry got back up in the same motion, carefully placing the slipper back on the ground in front of him. The parent yelled at him again, saying he should be studying like a good student ought to do. This made him laugh at its entirety.

"What's the point in studying? This sickness is gonna kill us all by the end of the month."

The second slipper was lodged at his head again, and this time he did not resist as the shoe collided with his face, and he felt his body ripple like a wave when he collapsed on the hardwood floors.

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"Now are you sure you don't want to practice running away together in my car?" Henry asked, seeming genuinely concerned for once in his life. He smacked the hood of his vehicle affectionately whilst speaking. "When the apocalypse comes we gotta be prepared to run away. It'll be you, me, and the open road! Plus this baby's got enough horsepower to run its own derby, haha!"

Well timed joke aside, Ricken was not amused by Henry's recurring antics. His talk of apocalyptic endings in their fairytale land made his heart turn upside down. Theirs was a story that was supposed to end happily, so why did Henry want to watch it all burn down with delight? He couldn't figure it out no matter how hard he tried.

"Henry, why do you keep talking like that? I told you, nothing bad's gonna happen! Chon'sin is a long way from here—" he pointed this out as if it would matter to a disease where the victims were— "so by the time it even gets to Ylisse they'll probably have found a cure."

"Doubt it," Henry said, "considering they've never seen anything like it. I heard that the leader of Chon'sin, Yen'fay, contracted the disease in just _two days_." He made a peace sign to highlight the number two, then pretended that his peace sign was a bunny that hopped about whimsically. Ricken found this topic to be mirthless, so to his grave reaction, Henry kept talking. "On the second day he was screaming bloody murder and even tried to kill his own sister. Wild world, wouldn't you say?"

"Y-You're kidding," Ricken dreaded the idea, and it showed on his paling face. "Well it's just...a really _bad_ coincidence. But it sounds like, I dunno, like you _want_ us to catch the disease."

"Not you," Henry insisted, "I wouldn't want _you_ to get sick. I care about you, Ricken!"

He blushed. If the circumstances weren't what they were he would have found it romantic. It was all in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Henry was still demanding that they go for test drives in his new car, and Ricken was adamant about _not_ getting in a vehicle with a person his age. He swiftly declined.

"Okay," Henry gave in, "but don't come crying to me when you need to get away for a weekend."

"I won't," Ricken reassured, "because I won't have to get away in the first place."

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Chon'sin fell. Graphic videos of the disease's effects were posted online. There was blood, flesh, and guts everywhere. In each shaky frame he could see, Henry noticed a dire look of hunger in the eyes of the afflicted. He saw how their bones were screaming for redemption, and their teeth gleamed as sharp as knives. He saw gashes left open and wounds left to fester, all of which made his twisted heart beat in wildly undying ways.

Oh, he called it. He called it, he called it, _he called it._ He couldn't wait to rub it in Ricken's face later. He jumped up from his seat, and grabbed his favorite long coat on his way out the door. Behind him, the television continued on its informative and gruesome display.

The dying screams of the newscaster lady was recorded for all to hear. The TV reverberated with the agonizing sound, and the camera angles shifted like a boat on the waves. When the focus came back, the frame fell on a small child with wickedly red eyes. They gawked into the lens and spoke in a horrifyingly sedate voice. "Oh. It seems they've all tired out, haven't they? Better find some more toys to play with. I'm getting _hungry."_

 _._

 _._

 _._

The illness finally spread to Ylisse. It had taken some time, but their pearly gates could only hold out the demons for so long. The disease traveled to the dreamy land, turning it into a place of nightmares in short notice. Those that survived started coining the phenomena by its popular name, _Risen._ It was based off the way that the infected souls died, but revived in the next few days as seemingly different people—hell, even as different _species._

What human could stand to act the way they did? It was worse than dying to most people. Those that became Risen were far too eager to dig into human flesh, and much happier when their faces were spattered with blood and entrails. Their teeth were good for biting (but there were claims that the average human's teeth was lethal even _beforehand_ , anyway) and their mouths were good for chewing. Other than that they didn't seem to have any significant uses or feelings on the matter. They retained uniform expressions in the face of their loved ones, gunfire, and sometimes a sad mix of the two.

But the creatures were not as dense as they appeared to be. No, the Risen had _some_ form of thoughtfulness, and it showed when they targeted landlines and radio towers first. Major wires were cut and communication was lost. Basic cellphone receptions were dying out quickly and Henry was thankful that his shitty family got him a decent plan. As the bars dwindled down on phone's reception meter, Henry sent a quick and desperate message to the only person he could think of at this time.

 _Hey lets meet by that concrete street we know and love._

Ricken replied instantaneously and Henry was thankful that the boy was still alive. He pocketed his phone and started up his car. Backing up into the empty street, he sighed happily as a singular, faraway shout pierced the evening sky.

Then the blues all bled into dark reds and oranges, and Henry knew the end was near.

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They met at their favorite street, the one where the paved roads were edged by badly cut grass and were adjacent to the sparkling clear creek. The blues of the stream had not been stained crimson yet, but it was only a matter of time before then. Henry wouldn't miss it for the world, but he would _delay_ it, just for Ricken. And fortunately for him, his friend was still alive and bounding towards his car in breakneck speed. The smaller boy seemed out of breath by the time he got there, but Henry was happy to see him, nonetheless.

"You...were...right..." he struggled to say, face sweating profusely as he nearly collapsed on the ground. "You were right..."

"I told you so~" Henry relished this small victory over anything else, even in light of the severe situation.

"Yes, you did...you can brag later, okay?"

"But I wanted to—"

"Later, okay? Later..." He heaved another laborious breath, "Later! Let's just get out of here!"

"That's fine by me! But what about your family? They can tag along too, y'know!"

"They're gone. Business trip," Ricken said grimly, shutting his eyes closed at the thought of a gruesome memory. "T-To Chon'sin. They should have already came back yesterday."

"Oh, I'm s—"

"—There's no time for that!" He screamed, jumping into the passenger seat. There were a few bulky bags which he threw to the backseat of the car. "I packed everything that I could. Let's get out of here, please."

"If you say so. I'm gonna drop by my place and get my stuff, though, so it shouldn't take too long." Key in the ignition again, and Henry was firing all cylinders. He grinned wickedly and gave the boy a good, friendly shake with his free hand. "Exciting, right? I always wanted to go on a road trip with you. Now I finally got my wish!"

"I think you're gonna get more than you bargained for," Ricken retorted, "but please, I don't care what you do. Just _drive_. Please."

"I love getting a good deal," Henry insisted, "but if it's for you, then driving's the least I can do." They rolled out of the street, leaving the smell of propane to hang thickly in the air with their anxiety. They couldn't see it, but there was faint movement in the distance behind them.

It was red—dark, odorous, sickening red—staining the clear waters with its evil and treacherous color.

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"I'll only be a moment," Henry announced, slamming the driver's door closed as he went. "Don't lock me out like last time, okay?"

"Last time was different," Ricken murmured, "last time we were at a party and you were drunk. Good friends don't let other friends drink and drive."

"I would have been _fine,_ " Henry said, turning his back on the other. "You worry too much!"

"You were already fine," Ricken protested from the car, "the party was at your _own house_ and you tried to leave! Gods," his words fell on deaf ears as Henry disappeared from his view and into his home. The redhead clung desperately at his own knees, bunching up the fabric of his clothes in tight, anxious hands.

Even though this was Henry's house, he had a bad feeling about it. There was a vileness that hung over the house like a mourning veil, leaving a sinking sensation in the pits of Ricken's stomach. Glass shards were scattered throughout, decorating the dying lawn with glints of danger. Not to mention the rickety picket fences were askew, white paints chipped off in great quantities as the age old yellow creeped in through the sides. It was a decrepit, awful place, and in the midst of the world's destruction he could only feel that it had become twice as terrible in that short time.

 _Please,_ he chanted in his head, _please, please, please, please. Henry please please please come back._

 _._

 _._

 _._

Henry was calm as he stepped inside. The very air of his home had changed, and he could feel it before his hands touched the doorknob. There as a deep, wretched sensation of invasion within—like the walls had ears and the pillars had eyes, all of which reported back to some dark unknown force about the boy's movements. For the first time in his life, he felt truly _unsafe_ in this place, and there was a new feeling of dread bubbling inside his stomach.

He discovered the reason for it all. In the wide, open living room were the bodies of his foster parents, splayed like broken wings fallen from flight. Their jaws were slack and hung open, thin streams of blood protruding from within and sliding down their pearly whites in sickly streams. Their eyes were dull and widened from the shock that must have been their last expression before they felt death swing them away in a dreamy motion. In their outstretched hands were meager weapons—box knives and the iron spit for the fireplace—that did not succeed in defending them against their enemy.

An enemy that was in the form of a small, crouched child. They were hunched over and picking away at the recently deceased bodies of Henry's foster siblings, those that lay motionless farther away from the parents. The child was murmuring nonsense words, voice lilting and faraway like a weak radio signal. It drifted in and out of reality, and between those rhyme-less strings of garble, Henry could make out lyrics to a _song._

The child sang and sang, some parts of the harmony morphing into a listless lull that sounded like someone reciting things from a shopping list. Henry was transfixed on this, and realized that there was a _Risen_ in his house. This small, seemingly harmless child had put an end to the only family he had ever known. And while they were a harsh, careless, _abusive_ family at best, they were everything to him. Seeing their demise sparked something in Henry, and his movements were more methodical and precise than they ever had been before.

He reached forward to pick up a fallen box knife, and extended the blade as far as it would go. While he would prefer a kitchen knife at the very least, the blade's deadliness lay in the accuracy of its wielder. And Henry made sure to never miss in dire moments—this would be no exception.

He lumbered forward as quietly as possible, lifting the knife into the air in an advantageous position. Then, the child became larger and more feral in his sight—its back was turned to Henry, and its head was tilted downward as it squelched and rummaged through the entrails of the fallen children. One of them was staring in Henry's general direction, and the boy hesitated as it felt like the child was looking directly at him. As if to note their disappointment, to wonder _why_ their older brother couldn't come save them in their fleeting moments of life.

Henry was not the best sibling, but he was not treated fairly like the rest of his siblings, either. In all the years he had wished them harm, he never actually managed to hurt them, and he never wanted them to die. But now they were fairly damaged, completely dead as the next victim and it looked as if they never stood a chance to begin. To see this sparked something violent in him, and his breath halted loudly.

The Risen child quickly turned around, and Henry only glanced at it for a few seconds at best, noticing its visage and appearance—that which was startlingly _red_ and _black,_ with little certainty in between the dark colors. Its eyes were wide, bloodshot, and devoid of human warmth. They were undeniably cold and malignant, seemingly glowing with a violet, unearthly aura that threatened to break every fiber and bone in Henry's body at a moment's notice.

It pinned the larger boy down to the floor easily, laughing hysterically at him for it. "More! More! I have a new toy!" It growled ferociously in Henry's face, blood and saliva splattering on him like paint. "Will you break as easy as the others? Are you manufactured the same? I'm about to find out!" Then it dug its large fangs into Henry's arm, drawing blood from him like a carnivorous mosquito.

The pain was white-hot and flashing. It was enough to keep him stunned and immobile, but Henry could feel his meat displacing himself, and realized he had to _move_. His body picked up on his mind's desire, and in one fluid motion, his right hand tightened around the box knife. Instinctual forces helped him and he mustered all his strength to raise his arm, and jab the blade as far as it would go into the Risen's head.

With a lovely, muffled sound, the blade met its rightful place. Lodged in the center of the child's skull, there was a staggering noise of blood and flesh spurting out from the wound's location, until the silent sprinkle of blood on the floor confirmed its lethality. The Risen moaned pathetically before slumping over, losing its reanimated life in a singular instant. As it collapsed on top of Henry, the latter realized in this form it was no different than the human children corpses only mere feet away.

It felt as if _he_ had killed those kids, instead, and it ate him in a way he could not understand. His dark eyes glanced towards his injury and he almost grimaced at the sight of it.

The child was successful in breaking him, for his arm was profusely bleeding and the skin around it started darkening into a sick, deathly lavender. No doubt the illness within the Risen had reached Henry's flesh, and he would be just like that beastly child in a short amount of time. Did the process hurt, he wondered? Or was it a painless transformation that would happen in the dead of the night?

Would it be like the feeling he felt when he thought about never seeing Ricken again? He hoped not, because that was a sensation that bore immense weight, and it nearly buried Henry alive in a pile of dread and loss. Oh, he wish he was better at expressing himself. In the loneliness of his broken home, he could have bawled, screamed, and wailed—and Ricken would be none the wiser. He could screech at his dead family and curse their names, hoping they would rot freshly in hell if they were even good enough to get in there in the first place. He would yell at that kid, too, and damn him for being a weakling that lost in the first wave of the apocalypse. Didn't he watch movies these days? Didn't he know you're supposed to die at the very end or not at all? _Gods damn him,_ Henry thought, _and everyone else here!_

He supposed that included himself, because with his infection he would not last long. Remembering that it was there in the first place, he hurried along to the first floor bathroom where he washed the blood away. There was a horrendous gash left in its place, but it was not bleeding as badly anymore. The honeyed skin had rotted into something very purple, and the thin veins in his arms pulsated with a dark blue color. He could _see_ the illness race up his arms, he could _see_ the transformation begin in full, and he could _see_ what it would eventually turn him into.

The thought of this alone made his hairs stand on end, and he banished it as far from his mind as he possibly could. The cold water racing down his skin was of small comfort, but it did its job like no other. Minutes later, Henry's limb appeared to be in good condition, save for the Risen bite on his upper arm. That could easily be covered, though, with a bandage if not a long sleeve shirt. And thinking of the clothes helped to remind him of the real reason he returned home, anyway. He had to pack his things for his road trip with Ricken, and he wouldn't miss that for the world.

Not even for his once-family, who lay still on his living room floor. But nothing could be done for them now. Maybe their stench and body-rot would ward off potential robbers or other humans, but if not their spoiled flesh would _definitely_ attract more Risen. And Henry would not want to be here when that happened.

He stuffed clothes, canned foods, and other things into backpacks and duffel bags. His family's things belonged to Henry now, and he saved the best bits for himself. Cool toys, electronics, and gizmos that he was never allowed to touch suddenly made their way into his storage. The fine jewelry and trinkets he was not permitted to bear were on his person now, and he even donned his foster father's favorite jacket—one that was a gaudy shade of purple with a gold finishing, and one that Henry was banned from ever touching.

No one could stop him now as he ransacked his own house, taking anything and everything that seemed useful. His own stash of switchblades (mostly those he stole from Tharja or Gaius in the past) was essential, as was the typical shotgun or two that his foster parents kept around in case of a burglary. Ironically the guns were untouched in their cabinet, and Henry decided that his family's utter stupidity killed them before that damned Risen could. At least it gave him more bullets, which he loaded into the weapons before placing the extra ammunition in his pack.

With everything gathered, he didn't bother looking back on anyone or anything. The house was useless to him now, and the only hope left for him was waiting in his driveway. He hadn't heard screaming or fighting up to this point, so he could only think that Ricken was luckier than him and he was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, completely unscathed and unknowing of the conflict within Henry's house just now.

For this, Henry was happy. If there was anything in the world left worth protecting, it was Ricken. And he was worth all the Risen bites in the universe.

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"Hey, there you are, Henry! I was getting worried. You brought a ton of stuff, sheesh! What'd you do, rob your own house?"

"Yeah, well I had to think smart. Plus there's a lot of stuff that could help us out. I even got the extra gas from the garage. It was for my dad's car, but he won't need it anymore."

"He won't need it anymore? Y-You mean that he's—"

"Yup! Him and the old woman are dead, that's for sure. So are all my foster siblings. Kinda unfortunate, really."

"Oh, _Henry_. Oh, Henry, I'm so _sorry._ It must have been terrible. The Risen got in your house? Or something else?"

"Yeah, it was a Risen, and its body was still there when I got in. They must have killed it in their final moments."

"Wow. I-I don't know what to say..."

"You don't have to say anything, but if we don't get moving now, we'll be next. Strap in, Ricken!"

"Okay, but Henry? It's just you and me now, right? So don't hold back. If something's bothering you, just tell me."

"..."

"...Henry?"

"Haha, you sure are funny! But don't worry your cute little head about _me,_ alright? I'm as right as Risen!"

.

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The two boys were off and running. The roads were congested badly by other surviving humans, and it stayed that way when Risen broke through the cars and caused a massive wreck. Soon enough people were screaming and running over each other as they tried to escape the violent monsters. Seeing that the freeway was out of question, Henry and Ricken had no choice but to take local routes. As they weaved in and out of neighborhoods and streets, they could see the madness that the Risen had caused to their former home. They saw familiar faces in the forms of corpses or Risen, and they couldn't tell which one was worse.

Henry decided that it was worse to be dead. At least when becoming a Risen, you could still sort of be yourself while walking around aimlessly. And now that Henry was on that path, he could spend more time with Ricken than he ever could before.

What a price to pay for such a luxury.

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Night fell over them in a quick sweep. They spent the first part of their road trip ("Stop calling it that," Ricken would say. Henry would just ignore him.) sleeping in Henry's car. They parked in the darkness of nearby trees, hoping that the low-hanging branches were enough to conceal them. If not, they locked the doors with good measure, rolled up the windows, and kept the guns close to their chests as they slept.

When Ricken fell unconscious, Henry turned on the flashlight on his phone and inspected his injury.

The violet ran up the entire length of the forearm, and the skin was gradually turning into a paler, sicker shade of its normal color. Henry could feel a cold edge like ice touching the sides of his head, and a dull ringing that formed whenever he thought about it. It beckoned to him, speaking madness into his ears like sweet nothings. It was very tempting to give in, but Henry had to follow his own advice from earlier.

To die on the first wave was very amateur-like, so if he were to perish, he would hold on until the _second wave,_ at the very least.

 _To anyone that's listening,_ he bargained inside of his head, _please let me live another few days. I don't want to say goodbye to Ricken just yet._ And with that silent wish, the white-haired boy fell fast asleep with guns in his hands and stars in his eyes.

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.

"I should teach you how to drive," Henry said whilst crushing the skull of a battle-fallen Risen beneath his feet. He was glad that his scene phase in freshman year allowed him to buy steel-toed boots, otherwise the force of his feet would never be enough to cave the Risen's skull in. But it did, and with each sickening _crack_ Henry's smile grew wider.

Ricken winced, despite having just stabbed a serrated knife into the head of another Risen. He was wiping the blood off of his cheek. "Why? You're probably a better driver than I could ever hope to be. Just last week your skills let us get away from that gang! They would have killed us if it wasn't for you. I'd never be able to do something like that, Henry..."

"But you have to learn," he insisted, "because if you don't—" _then you'll be a sitting duck when I turn into a Risen_ _— "_ then when I'm _not around,_ you'll be in trouble. All the stuff we went through to get gas for this car will mean absolutely _nothing_ if no one can drive it."

"I-I guess you're right," the younger boy lamented as he sat down on the grass in defeat. "I just don't like thinking about the fact that you might _die._ Like, either of us could really die at any second. It's so scary."

"I know," Henry consoled, getting down on Ricken's level to better comfort him. "I know," he cooed, pushing blood-soaked hair out of Ricken's eyes. "But until then we have to do our best, okay? I'll teach you how to drive but I'm not kicking the bucket just yet. I'm still here for you, Ricken." The older boy paused, but decided to go through with it as he gently placed a kiss on top of Ricken's head.

His hair bore an aroma like blood and citrus, the remnants of his sweet-smelling shampoo disappearing in their apocalyptic settings. He laughed at the joke _blood oranges_ popping in his mind, and was thankful that Ricken was more receptive of his affection than previously thought.

The boy reached up a placed a mutual kiss on Henry's cheek, relishing in the strange warmth that pooled there. Even as the other boy continued wearing his trademark smile, there was something in his reddening face that dictated he was not as calm and unbroken as he tried to be. Maybe he was flustered by the kiss? That would be surprising more than anything, but Ricken was not brave enough to explore this idea further.

Not yet, anyway. It was too soon but he was sure that with time, he could properly assess his feelings for Henry in full and vice versa. With that resolve, Ricken shrugged the rest of those thoughts and feelings away as he sprung to his feet, helping Henry up in the process.

"Then you better teach me while we're still here."

"I better! But hey, remember when you said not to watch all those scary movies? Well now I'm an expert at apocalypses and our survival rate's through the roof! Haha!"

Ricken gave a playful shove, nearly tripping over the Risen corpses as he did so. "Shut up," he said, "this is _nothing_ like those movies."

.

.

.

It was getting worse.

He couldn't eat.

He couldn't sleep.

He could barely sit still.

Ricken asked if he was okay, and Henry lied saying that he felt like he caught a fever.

"Makes sense," Ricken said, "since we passed by that sick camp earlier. Poor guys still think there's a cure for the Risen."

"There's not?" Henry wondered honestly. "I mean, can't science do something cool about it?"

"All the good scientists are probably dead," Ricken pointed out, "and I spoke to one of the doctors. Some of the sick people are actually infected. It's all a facade to help them in their dying days. They stab them to death before they turn."

"Oh," was all Henry replied with, before he buried his head in his hands. Ricken rubbed soothing circles into his back, saying that the fever would go away soon.

The fever would go away, but not the infection.

It would stay.

It would linger.

It would destroy him from the inside out.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

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.

They said that in the early stages of becoming a Risen, a person still has more than half of their conscious selves within them. They said that the sickening, carnivorous symptoms don't show themselves right away, and the first thing that someone goes through is a dreamy state of blood lust. They said that similar to popular, fantastical creatures called _vampires,_ those afflicted by the Risen would get a strange craving for blood, and be utterly intoxicated with the idea of its taste.

It was a precursor, they said. A preview for the monstrous appetite to come. While hearing this should have been disheartening to Henry, he was actually relieved. It meant that he had a little more time with Ricken—a few more days added to the total before it would all end.

But it also meant that he could _taste_ Ricken's blood at some point. While the idea might have bothered him previously before, there was a certain itchiness in his throat that he couldn't banish. The thought of crimson-black fluids dripping down his guzzle was more than inviting, and he wondered why he was so distressed about being bitten by Risen in the first place.

Then he realized what he was thinking and almost laughed at himself. _Oh,_ he thought, _so_ that's _what they meant._

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.

There was static in the air and doldrums by the clouds. There was no warning for this weather inclemency, although Ricken's cellphone was still functional enough to access the weather. It was a storm like no other, and it meant they had to find shelter in a building for once, seeing as their car could float down the flooded roads without fail.

The storm had quickly rendered their car useless, anyway, and they had to tether it to something to prevent it from washing away with the flood. It was a saving grace more than anything, however, because the water muddied their scent and confused the Risen that were on their tails. It also washed the ungodly, long-dried blood from their faces and clothes, and standing in the midst of all the rain was reinvigorating.

They couldn't stay out for _too_ long, though, and they had to make their way back into the dry building before they caught a cold. _Or before Ricken catches one,_ Henry thought to himself, _because getting sick is nothing compared to becoming a_ _—_

 _"—_ Henry." Ricken spoke curtly, cutting off Henry's train of thought. The act was very sudden and very violent, and as a result, the train itself screeched to an earsplitting stop. The sound of the rails grinding hurt Henry's ears, and made his eyes gloss over with confusion.

"Henry." The boy repeated the name, and the train cars were—at this point—dislodging from each other. Rattled so very much, Henry wondered who made them and why they weren't more reinforced. He also wondered why he was thrown off so easily, since he held on so tightly to begin with. Very strange indeed.

"Henry, are you listening?" Ricken muttered. He sounded desperate, like there was Risen in the room. But there wasn't. "Henry, I love you."

The cars were sliding down the rails in disconnected thralls now, with the metal thrashing against itself and creating an ugly harmony in his mind. If he could just reach out, he could grab onto a handle and continue his ride. It was hard to think when it was all loose like this.

"I love you, Henry."

Finally, one of the cars halts long enough for Henry to jump back on again, and his smile lights up his face as his hands tighten around the holds. He's going full speed this time. "I love you, too, Ricken." His words are his but they are distant, faraway as they hang in the air like dust. They settle on the hairs of his skin and cuts on his lips. They let him bleed. "Gods, I love you too."

Ricken pulled him in, and the sound of the rails became a fleeting thought in Henry's mind. His eyes were open and he faced Ricken's glance with his own. The brown earth met the turbulent, violet sea, and their harmony shattered the sky with dazzling lightning. A flicker of hesitation— _is this okay,_ Ricken wanted to ask but didn't—ran across their gazes. But ultimately they decided that it was very much okay, and there was nothing wrong with falling in love with the person you're meant to fall in love with.

Even if it took the world ending to get there, it was better late than never. Henry agreed with this, and smiled into the kiss as he stole Ricken's breath away from him in loving, laborious movements. He used every ounce of willpower in his body to restrain himself from biting down on Ricken's lip, because doing so would draw his sweet, sweet blood from his body, and even go as far as to infect him with the same status as Henry.

Despite various voices in the back of his head screaming to devour the younger boy—to kill him and bite him in one fell swoop—Henry resisted, silencing his thoughts and theirs with sudden, desperate kisses that left him gasping for air.

"I love you too, Ricken." He whispered in between their touches, pressing his nose against the other's as he stared into his eyes gently. "I love you more than you could ever imagine."

.

.

.

He was starting to fade away. Food was few and far between, and water was barely partaken through the day. He could not remember the last time he slept, and it pained him to pretend to be fatigued each night, knowing that his body screamed to be awake with every voice it had possible. When Ricken's eyes fluttered close, Henry's eyes would snap wide open, and he would lie in wait in the midst of darkness until the younger boy could be roused again.

Whenever that happened, Henry would stare into the moonlight longingly, as if something was waiting for him on that desolate rock. As if salvation could be found so far away from the cursed surface of the planet he lived on. As if there was anything left for him in this world, when there clearly wasn't. His infection grew larger and harder to hide, and he would pretend that various purple and blue streaks in his skin were bruises left from a fight. He would feign ignorance when Ricken pointed out gashes, scars, and wounds that obviously weren't there before.

He would lie, lie, _lie_ through his insipid teeth if it meant protecting the fragile dream they believed in. If he could make the other feel safe and happy, then any suffering was worth it. Henry believed this so much that he ignored all the things in his head that were still screaming at him, demanding that he partake in blood, cannibalism, and worse. Those that made him the monster he was now turned on their own creation, damning the poor boy for not following their orders.

He knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed, because if there was one thing that was inevitable in their world, it was _death._

And it was soliciting at Henry's doorsteps, scraping at the window panes until the boy would finally, _finally_ let it in.

.

.

.

"Henry, I think there's something wrong with you."

"It's the end of the world, Ricken. What do you expect?"

.

.

.

Days bled into weeks which bled into months. All the numbers smashed together in one, incoherent blob that Henry could hardly decipher. But he was still Henry, so there was a vague thought in the back of his mind saying that he was stronger than he initially thought. Risen bites should have turned him completely into one by this time, yet he remained rather tame despite the amount of time that had passed.

And it was a _lot_ of time, mind you. They had been on the road forever, and his car was seeing the last of its miles. The ignition refused to start more often than not, and it burned through its fuel faster than it should. But could it have been helped? The vehicle was in mediocre shape _before_ the Risen, and could only stand to worsen _after_ the Risen. Not to mention that there was not a single body shop open anymore, and strangers were more likely to kill him than lend a helping hand.

He didn't like to admit it, but things were getting real worse too soon. Ricken noticed this, too, and became somber at the idea. While the boys were immensely in love with each other, there was a cold distance placed between them whenever they rode in Henry's car. The redhead would stare out the window, scrutinizing the weak and wild world with his earthen eyes. The white-haired one, on the other hand, would look straight ahead at the seemingly endless path. Between the corpses and totaled cars, there was nothing on the road but them in their ever bitter silence.

Henry knew why it was there. He knew that Ricken was aware that _something_ was wrong. If only the boy were more observant, more hands on, because then he could see for himself how Henry's infection hindered him—painting him various colors as if he were a blank canvas. Purple, blue, and indigo on one day, with red, orange, and yellow on another. His wiry limbs were weakening and it was getting harder to hold onto things. There was a constant exhaustion in his eyes, one that would never again be cured by a good night's sleep.

If Ricken could only see a little bit further than he already did, he would have known _exactly_ what was wrong. He might have even been able to help in some small way, but Henry knew that knowledge of this Risen bite would only hurt him. They had promised to be together forever, after all, and professed their undying love in the same shameless matter. For Henry to break those promises would be more than devastating—it would be completely _destructive_. If Henry were to up and die now, Ricken would be left with nothing except despair and soul-crushing regret.

But there was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

Not when they were driving, and not when the last vestiges of hope remained in the uncertain path before them.

.

.

.

"She's done for," Henry muttered as he shut the hood of his car closed. "It's all messed up. Someone must have tampered with it."

"It must have been those jerks from the quarry," Ricken answered the idea aloud, "I knew something was up. They were the ones that stole our gas! Worse, they destroyed this car. We're goners!" He threw his hands into the air, and then covered his thin face with them—hiding himself in defeat and shame. "Oh, Henry. What're we gonna do?"

"Don't be silly," Henry said, "we'll do what we've always done. _Survived,_ y'know? We'll walk down these roads like we used to. Back when school was in session." A wry smile appeared, and despite its nature it helped to quell the anxiety in Ricken's chest. He wiped at stray tears that rolled out his eyes.

"Back when school was _around,_ " Ricken noted grimly, laughing in spite of himself. The tears were running slower, now. "I would take Mister Frederick's harsh P.E. lessons over this any day. I take back everything I said about that man."

Henry laughed, too. Reminiscing about those innocuous times were surely something, alright. It made him somewhat more comforted about the situation—whatever comfort could be garnered from it, anyway. "Yeah, I agree! I miss that guy. And everyone from back at school. I even miss Tharja," he recalled it all fondly, slumping down on the hood of his car in a whimsical motion. "I miss Robin, too. Damn, I miss everyone!"

"M-Me too," Ricken admitted, chuckling lightly. He started taking their possessions out from the car's trunk, and loaded the important things into wearable backpacks. "I miss it all so much...I miss that life. I hate what this is right now. I hate every single thing about it." The words fell out like flooded water, but he couldn't help it. For the first time since the outbreak, they had properly talked about what they missed of their old lives. And while the memories felt far away and paper thin, the feeling off it still left a horrid shudder in Ricken's spine.

"I wish things were different. I wish our first date wasn't this awful road trip, or that our first kiss wasn't in the light of the worst storm of our lie. I wish I could have kissed you back at junior prom like I wanted to. I wish—"

"—Stop it." Henry asserted, grabbing Ricken's shoulder in a form to intimidate him. The boy straightened up, and recoiled fearfully underneath his touch. _He had never done something like this before._ "Stop it." He was rather harsh, and flicked Ricken's smaller body backward. "Don't spill out your guts just 'cause my _car broke down._ Come on, Ricken. It might not have been the best, but isn't this better than nothing?" The usual gait in his voice had disappeared, and was replaced with a frenzied anger Ricken had never ever heard from Henry before. Not once in his _life._ "Aren't _I_ better than _nothing?"_

"What are you even talking about?" He argued, giving Henry a little shove of his own. "What are you _saying?_ This has nothing to do with that! I wish a thousand times over that this stupid sickness never spread. I wish the Risen never existed. Then our families would be alive, our friends would be around, and we'd be at school again! We could be walking home by the creek again. We could have been doing it all over again, but instead we're _not_ because of this stupid, stupid outbreak!" His eyes were renewed with tears from earlier that threatened to escape, and his hands balled up into tight, little fists. He shook visibly. "How _dare_ you. You think I would never love you if our lives were on the line? You _idiot!_ I've always—"

He choked up on his words, and turned his face away to avert his tearful gaze. Henry reached out to touch him—comfort him, console him, cajole him—but Ricken swatted his hands away with a fierce look in his eyes. " _No_ ," he said, "leave me alone right now."

The boy stormed off, not going very far as he found solace beneath the shade of a nearby tree. He yelled angrily, and kicked at a root that was poking up from the ground. Frustrated, he sat back down again, with his back turned towards Henry and his eyes staring at the grass in a deadly manner.

Henry was speechless. He wanted to say so much more, but he knew it was not his place to. He wanted to apologize, to take it all back and say that he wished the same. He wished that life was normal again—he wished his own goddamn foster family was alive to yell and bully him again. He would even wish for Tharja's angry stares and Gaius' bad jokes again.

He would wish, wish, and _wish_ until it all was fixed, and Ricken was happy with him and the world was aligned once more.

 _But the wishes of a dead man,_ he thought gruesomely, _don't mean much, do they?_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Time was running out. Henry felt extremely feverish now, and there were intervals between consciousness where he blacked out completely, only to awaken in strange scenes where he did not remember creating. Fires sparked in the dead of night, trees that served as temporary beds, and rivers stained red with the occasional fish swimming by—he did not recognize either of those things, yet sometimes he found himself there, with a placid Ricken at his side. The boy was not as angry as before, but there was a curt awkwardness emanating from him.

There was something broken in his eyes.

Henry did not know what it was, but he hated it all the same. Ricken didn't look at him the same way anymore, and he hardly spoke, too. The silence, Henry decided, was worse than anything else he could imagine. And he thought very frequently that he should like to yell at Ricken, to scream his heart out until it separated from his body and fell out into his tremulous hands altogether.

But he didn't have the energy for that anymore. Nothing was making sense anymore, and Henry _knew_ that his luck was growing thin. He knew that he had to tell Ricken the truth, _before_ he turned into a full fledged Risen right in front of him. The boy deserved to know the reality of their situation, and once Henry said that there would be nothing left unsaid between them.

All the "I love you"s and the "I hate you"s had come out already, and while it seemed bittersweet, it made Henry extremely grateful. No hell was worse than the one where he would die without ever telling Ricken how he felt. Knowing that the boy would never question his love from this point on was a real blessing, and Henry counted it on his spindly fingers with each fragile breath he took.

 _I love you._ Thumb. _I love you._ Index finger. _I love you._ Middle finger. _I love you._ Ring finger. _I love you._ Pinkie. _I love you._ Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat.

"Henry?" A somewhat apologetic voice asked him. "Can I...can we talk, please?"

Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat—oh? Henry smiled, and barely held up his hands in fake jubilee. He croaked out the words with a small splatter of blood, which splashed on Ricken and made him scream. He answered him.

" _I love you_."

.

.

.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why did you keep it a secret?"

"I didn't want you to worry. I wasn't scared about you killing me, because I would understand if that's what you wanted to do—but I didn't want you to worry. I didn't want you to be scared. I only wanted to be with you a lil' longer."

"You idiot. You big, terrible idiot! How could you do this to me? Is that why you taught me to drive? Is that why you showed me how to defend myself? So I could use it against _you?_ So I could run away from _you?_ "

"..."

"Oh, Henry. I would have dropped it all to be with you. I would have let myself get bitten for you. We could have gone _together_. Oh, Henry...why did you...?"

"Ricken, please. Please don't cry."

"..."

"I'm so sorry, Ricken. But I really love you! I told you, didn't I? From the very beginning when this all started. _I care about you, Ricken._ I wouldn't want you to ever, _ever_ get hurt."

"...Haa...why...? Why do you care for me so much? It's not fair. You're so loving, so caring, and I-I—"

"Shh. Don't say that. You've been so kind to me. Since I first met you, you've always looked out for me~ I don't think I'd be here if it wasn't for you. I think something worse than the apocalypse would have taken me from you. But instead we're together. And I'm sorry for lying! I know it's a bad habit...I can't help it."

He reaches out to the boy, and kisses him on the cheek as if it's their last. Ricken hiccups once more, breath squeaking and faltering underneath the pressure of it all. His eyes are affixed on Henry's infection—the arms, legs, and other parts which were so sick and rotten that it was surprising he did not eat Ricken entirely just now.

He stays silent, but Henry just trails kisses along Ricken's knuckles, holding them tightly in his own embrace. He smiles.

"I can't help it," he repeats himself, "I just love you _so much_."

.

.

.

They were getting ready to say goodbye. They knew the days between them were short and forthcoming. It was the emotional trauma that helped Ricken fall fast asleep, and while he slumbered away softly, Henry was listening on an old radio they found in an abandoned apartment some time ago. He fiddled with it and got a signal, managing to hear the informative broadcast from a surviving radio host.

"If anyone's hearing this," they said, "the Risen have destroyed our world. We can prevent further ruination through these tips. Do not let a Risen bite you, their venom will turn you into one of them!"

 _No kidding,_ Henry thought faintly, eyes fluttering with an unknown fatigue as he stared at his old bite mark. It festered into something ugly and fleshy, horribly discolored and pulsating within itself. There was a new danger in his wounds, but he couldn't quite place it. He gulped.

"Do not let them come _near you,_ " the host said on the static waves, "a Risen's saliva alone is enough to infect you. And the infection takes some time, but when it happens it's finalized. Vampiric side effects appear first, followed by horrible mutilation and cannibalism—"

Henry stuttered, nearly falling to his knees at the sudden revelation. _Saliva?_ He suddenly thought. _Saliva is deadly? But I've kissed Ricken, like, at least ten times now! What the hell? Does that mean_ _—_

A single glance in the redhead's direction, and it was relieving to know he was still serenely unconscious in the night's lull. His soft rise and fall of the chest was peaceful, and there wasn't a mark on him that wouldn't heal with time. There was no dis-figuration, no pulsations, nothing in his skin or body that showed he was suffering an infection. _And he had his fair share of saliva intake._ As gross as it seemed in retrospect, Henry was very forward with his romantic gestures, and surely his kisses left a little bit of himself inside Ricken each time. So the fact that all these days had passed and nothing happened to him could only mean one thing.

"You lucky bastard," Henry whispered to the sleeping boy. "You're _immune._ "

.

.

.

The last bits of Henry's body, mind, and soul were soon to be lost in the Risen's void forever. He could barely string words together, and was only capable of stroking Ricken's face with his dull hands. He hoped the gestures held out, though, and he hoped even harder that Ricken wasn't suddenly a mind reader, too.

Because if he was, he surely wouldn't like the things that Henry was thinking about. And he would most definitely disapprove of the white-haired male's violent imaginations of biting into Ricken's soft skin, and tasting the surreptitious flavor of blood and flesh once and for all.

But he didn't blame himself anymore. He was too far gone at this point.

.

.

.

Eyes glossed over with a dangerous haze; body hampered by an unknown weight; heart reverberated to a foreign song; Henry knew no longer what he was doing. All he knew was that he was smiling, blissful, and utterly featherweight as he drifted along with the wind.

He could feel Ricken's heartbeat against his. He could feel his tepid stare and lukewarm hands embrace his own.

He could feel the trickle of Ricken's blood at the tip of his fangs, the deep red dripping down his skin and hands until they, too, were stained crimson.

"Yes," he hissed out in a voice that didn't sound like him anymore, "you taste so _good,_ Ricken. And you're all mine. Mine, mine, mine, _mine._ "

.

.

.

His heart was drowning and his throat was ablaze. Trapped beneath forceful hands and a feral gaze, Ricken could do nothing as he was suddenly pinned down by his best friend, his confidant, his _lover._ It was the same lover that had promised him the world and more, the one that swore no harm would come to him. While he already failed in more ways than one, his effort was noble above all else, and in the vast darkness of those rotten eyes, Ricken could still detect Henry's soft and vulnerable gaze. Within the older boy's eyes were streaks of violet being ebbed out by venomous black and red. He smelled the other's familiar aroma of old paper and lilac. He felt the thrums of his feeble heart beating thinly against the rails of his chest.

He was still Henry, all in all, and that monstrous look on him was but another one of those things about him that Ricken could never hope to understand. They were in love, but it was a love that grew wearier with each passing day—one that wilted as soon as it had bloomed. And the short-lived lifespan of it all only served to hurt Ricken. His eyes were wide and tired, and he could do nothing to dry their tears. There was nothing to be done about his languid movements, or his laughter that came out in a weak, shattered string of melodies. It was pathetic.

And he would continue to move in his pathetic ways until the very end.

Henry was kinder about it, though. His smile was somehow softer ( _Henry, is that you?_ He wanted to ask but didn't. Oh how he yearns and yearns but never acts out on his desires) in that moment, and the way his hands wrung Ricken's neck were not as strong as they should have been. Was it sympathy and luck at work here? Or was it the boy that Ricken knew and loved, using the very last ounce of his life and energy to hold back the slaughter on his boyfriend?

It was hard to tell, but when Henry bit into Ricken's neck he could sense it all. The anger, hatred, and regret—coupled with the sorrow, happiness, and desire—poured over him like ice water, and his body shivered beneath the monster's strange, parasitic touch. Like a knife cutting into him deeply, or a shovel scooping out a part of him, the blood and flesh overflowed like a fountain of gore into Henry's mouth, and he all but giggled like a madman as it bubbled inwardly—sliding down his throat like slow-moving molasses.

It was sweet, sweet, _sweet_. Just like Ricken himself, the boy's blood was entirely _sweet_.

And the infection had given Henry quite the sweet tooth. He went for more and more, enthralled in the thirst that overtook him, lost in the madness that had its hold on him from the very beginning. Ricken's mind seemed to glaciate as the ice seeped into his very bloodstream. The pictures in his eyes blurred into unrecognizable colors—white, black, red, and purple again, only to fall into green, orange, and gray again. Each time Henry dug further and further into Ricken's skin with his sharp teeth, the plethora of colors and hues would explode in his eyes, with a simultaneous feeling of cold and warmth surging through his body like electricity.

With a gentle hand, Ricken caressed the side of Henry's face, and smiled sadly to himself as his head lulled to the side, eyes closing and mind backing out into oblivion. He had no time to even think of something comforting to say, and was rather welcoming to the quiet darkness that settled in his soul.

.

.

.

Ricken awoke, completely surprised that he was able to do so. With Henry turning into a full fledged Risen before his eyes, he would have expected his body to be torn to shreds. Yet it lay in one complete—albeit injured—piece, so it left him more puzzled than before. When his mind cleared of the initial haze of just having woken up, Ricken forced himself to stand up.

The concrete walls in front of him were decorated in blood and other liquids, forming the most macabre mural he had ever witnessed in his life. The messy scrawl was familiar, though, and the scent of lilac hung faintly in the air.

 _You're immune,_ it said on the stone in blood, but with the "e" looking more like an "o" than anything. The rest of the script was just as wobbly, but more letters and words followed after that. _Live on._ It was just as sloppy as the mess before it, but those simple scriptures were enough for Ricken. He noticed his body seize up, and his chest overflow with mixed emotions. It brought salty tears to his eyes that fell down his cheeks like acid rain. But he ignored it all, as he stood transfixed on the message before him.

The largest letters were formed with the darkest shades of red, and three distinct words were noticeable at the very bottom of the concrete wall. They were practically smeared on sideways, but those words were so familiar that anyone in the world could have read it. And Ricken read it over and over and _over_ again, clutching his injured neck and falling to his knees before the art like it was a holy icon. The tears rolled out his eyes endlessly and he mouthed the last sentence—the last _words_ he would ever hear from Henry—one more time.

 _I love you._

* * *

 **—don't leave me to starve before I go.**


End file.
